


The Trusted One

by SlytherinsDragon



Series: Holmescest Works [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Consensual Sex, Emotional Sex, First Time, Hopeful Ending, M/M, Mycroft Being a Good Brother, Mycroft Feels, Mycroft Holmes Has Feelings, Post-Episode: s03e02 The Sign of Three, Post-Wedding, Sherlock is a Mess, holmescest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-02
Updated: 2019-10-02
Packaged: 2020-11-15 04:41:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,309
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20860397
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SlytherinsDragon/pseuds/SlytherinsDragon
Summary: After John's wedding, Sherlock goes to his brother and asks him for something that neither had expected.





	The Trusted One

**Author's Note:**

> Couldn't sleep again, so I finished this one-shot that I've been working on for the past couple of days. I feel that everyone at some point had an urge to write a post-wedding fic, so here's mine.

Mycroft checks the notification from his phone when it buzzes on the nightstand. Someone is trying to guess their way through the electronic locks on his front door. Mycroft knows who it is without even having to check the camera feed.

_So… he’s decided to come here… tonight…_

In retrospect, Mycroft should have known. Alas, Sherlock has always been his blind spot – the unpredictable variable – for a man who made a living by turning chaos into order; to see through the noise in order to make decisions of national and global import.

The earlier phone call should have been a dead giveaway. His little brother asking him once more to come to the damned ‘night do’. Regardless of what Sherlock says, it is an end of an era. The final cut in a relationship that has been fractured since Moriarty’s downfall. He had watched from afar as Dr. Watson mourned for Sherlock like a lover. The depth of the doctor’s grieving had perturbed Mycroft. It had left him to wonder if there had been something more between his brother and the doctor – despite never seeing signs of sexual congress on Sherlock’s person. But then again, Mycroft could never be certain in matters pertaining to his brother. Frankly, it made him jealous. That such a simple man had such a profound relationship with the man that Mycroft cannot ever have.

In a way, it is a relief. There had been a reasonable chance that tonight would have been a danger night. There will be no need for Mycroft to get out of his comfortable bed at the dead of night or the wee hours of the morning to go haul Sherlock out from the bowels of some sordid drug den.

From his bed, he hears the creaking of steps. Mycroft reaches over to switch on the lamp next to him on the nightstand, bathing the surroundings in a warm glow. His brother bursts into the bedroom, still attired in the waistcoat and tie – a rare sight that Mycroft takes pleasure in. Sherlock hesitates just as he reaches the bed, before toeing off his shoes and flinging himself childishly onto the mattress. Mycroft does not speak – curious to see what his brother would do in this highly intriguing situation.

His brother arranges himself supine on top of the quilt. There is a strange contemplative glint in his eye that Mycroft cannot fathom. And the question that comes out of his mouth is even more odd and ambiguous. It almost sounds, dare he say… wistful. “What is it like?”

“What is what like?” Mycroft asks – keeping the bewilderment out of his voice.

“Intimacy.” Sherlock gazes at the ceiling.

The are many types of intimacy, but his brain – yes, even his formidable brain – goes straight for the sexual kind. How could he not, especially with the being that he is currently sharing his bed with? He mentally berates himself. How could he possibly pick up the pieces for Sherlock if he keeps thinking along those lines? Besides, Sherlock is likely grieving for the lost opportunity to be something more with the bloody doctor. Dr. Watson had given up waiting in less than three years; Mycroft would have waited forever. Damn. Where did that even come from?

“You’ve had experiences.” Sherlock states knowingly. “Many experiences.”

“Yes.” Mycroft admits easily.

There had been discreet dalliances. Even short-term relationships. But never anything profound. Nevertheless, Mycroft would consider himself experienced. This is a conversation topic that Sherlock and he had never breached.

But why now?

Sherlock nods before lapsing into another contemplative silence. “I am lonely.” He admits. There is something in his voice that tears at Mycroft. The words bring him back to another conversation.

_"I’m not lonely, Sherlock."_

_"How would you know?"_

He dares to ask. “Have you ever told Dr. Watson how you felt towards him?”

Sherlock laughs in dismay. 

Good god. His brother did have feelings for that damnable doctor.

Mycroft has never felt more jealous of another person.

“Why does everyone think that it is John that I have feelings for?” Sherlock asks with some exasperation. “I don’t. I just… wonder if I am missing out on something, Mycroft… Just reconsidering what I’ve classified as unimportant in my youth…”

Maybe because you two were always joined at the hip before the Fall, brother? The fires of jealousy are immediately quenched by Sherlock’s faltering words. Mycroft had never experienced such an extreme range of emotion in his lifetime. But he needs to pick at this further – not just for Sherlock’s sake – but out of his own morbid curiosity. And he needs his wits about him. “What brought this on, little brother?” He asks kindly. “The wedding?”

“I think… it has been a long time coming… Reichenbach. I was alone for three years, Mycroft. Three years. You know how it is. Lots of downtime in hidey-holes and airports. Occasional bursts of activity to liven things up a bit. There were days that I literally lived inside my own head. And eventually… I found myself imagining things – as ludicrous as it sounds. Impossible things…” Sherlock trails off, looking somewhat lost.

“Why were they impossible, brother?” Mycroft can hazard a guess, but he’s been wrong too many times already for his liking.

“I don’t like people, Mycroft. You know that. I tolerate them. I cannot imagine…” Sherlock sighs deeply. “Being vulnerable like this… in front of anyone.” His brother closes his eyes and says – the wistful nature creeps back into his syllables. “But… I do want. I want it… You know… in Serbia… I thought I was really going to do die there. And… I didn’t want to die alone…”

There was no way Mycroft would have let his brother die in Serbia. It had been the worst sort of torture to sit there and not do anything while Sherlock’s captors had their brutal way with him. That was not the context that Mycroft had wanted to see his brother naked.

God. He really does have no self-control. Letting his brain run away with all of this.

Mycroft instead asks for clarification. “This is about sex?”

“There was sex… You know – Mycroft – I was hiding in someone’s apartment in New York City. It was around Christmas then. I was laying down low for a few days to keep my pursuers off my tracks… And I found a small stash of reading material in the room I was confined in. Romances. Fiction. I scoffed when I first laid my eyes on them. But then… I grew so terribly and desperately bored in there that I started reading them. It took me an entire day to finish them all. They were quite… explicit. Left nothing to the imagination. At the end, I knew theoretically of every permutation that a man can be intimate with another man.”

“Well, there are escort services, brother.” Mycroft interjects during the weighty silence that follows.

“You don’t understand.” Sherlock says somewhat sharply. “It wasn’t just sex. I know you said to me many times that caring is not an advantage…”

Mycroft wants to slap himself. It is the old mantra that he had told himself over and over again to try and get over his highly inappropriate feelings for his brother.

“But there was affection. There was tenderness. And, maybe – there was love. Brother…” Sherlock continues, despite Mycroft’s internal turmoil.

“Who did you imagine doing all these things with, Sherlock?” Mycroft has to know. He just has to. Even if it utterly destroys him.

“To be honest, I don’t know. Someone that my brain made up. A phantom. I could never see his face properly. But it didn’t matter. He kept me occupied when I was bored. Kept me out of trouble. When I came back… I realized that fantasy isn’t enough. I needed more… I just want to see what it is like – to be with someone like that. Someone that I could trust…”

Sherlock then flips onto his front. His striking eyes fixate upon Mycroft as if he had just made a profound deduction.

Mycroft has never been more terrified in his entire life. He can see where this is going without needing Sherlock to spell it out. Sherlock trusts him to show him this. But yet, there are no guarantees that his brother would return his feelings. Maybe Sherlock only needs one such experience to get it out of his system. Despite the risk that this would hurt him more at the end – Mycroft does not want to turn this opportunity down. This may be the only chance for him to get his hands on his brother. However, he realizes that this puts him at the greatest risk of revealing the dizzying breadth of his incestuous feelings towards Sherlock.

For once in his responsible life, Mycroft cannot find it in himself to be arsed about the consequences.

“I trust you.” Sherlock states with a certainty that Mycroft would carry with him for the rest of his days, even if the experience itself goes pear-shaped. “I want you to show me, brother.”

“Are you sure? Incest isn’t exactly orthodox…” Mycroft’s easy agreement elicits shock from Sherlock.

His brother recovers quickly and solemnly says. “There is no one I could possibly ask. Mycroft. Please… show me.”

“You will follow me for once, brother mine?” Mycroft asks, the words coming out more tender than intended. “Let me guide you.”

“Yes… Mycroft.” Sherlock sits up and faces him.

“Tell me what you’ve done.” Mycroft reaches forward to plunge his hand into Sherlock’s curls, letting his fingers run through the silky and luxurious strands.

His brother relaxes and leans immediately into the caresses, making noises that sound like purrs. “Well, before Reichenbach, I wanked on occasion. I called it necessary transport maintenance.”

Mycroft chuckles. Yet, it is sad how touch-starved Sherlock really is. And, he has an inkling about the emotional toll that the Fall had taken on him. He can imagine Sherlock all alone in that small room in the middle of New York City with those explicit books for company and comfort.

“After I came back… wanking wasn’t doing it for me anymore. I… ugh… touched myself… everywhere. I put fingers up my arse. I even bought toys.” Sherlock admits, sounding a bit sheepish.

God. Mycroft sees in his mind a vision of Sherlock kneeling on his bed, working himself open with his fingers while his other hand pulls languidly at his cock. What a wondrous image.

He wonders how his brother would look at the moment of climax.

“What do you like?” Mycroft asks, as he moves his fingers down to trace the lines of Sherlock’s exquisite facial structure – especially focusing his attention on those elegant cheekbones.

His brother is now literally resting his cheek against Mycroft’s palm as he does this. There is a relaxed, contended and peaceful expression on Sherlock’s face that Mycroft hasn’t seen in a long time.

“I liked playing with my arse.” Sherlock says dreamily. “Being penetrated with the toys I bought…”

God. He would love to fuck his brother. That perfect plump arse. The tight virginal hole. He hadn’t even been sure that Sherlock was a virgin until this conversation. His brother had come back a changed man. Fuck. Mycroft is already incredibly aroused. But this wouldn’t do for a first time. First times should be kept as simple as possible. Painless. He wants to show Sherlock what it feels like to share pleasure with another person.

His hand reaches over to undo Sherlock’s tie. It is a real sign of how mentally distraught his brother had been earlier. Sherlock despised ties and would not wear them a second longer than necessary. He tackles the waistcoat next. And when he moves to unbutton Sherlock’s shirt, his brother’s fingers tentatively reach over to undo the buttons of Mycroft’s pajama top.

“You don’t have to be a passive participant, brother.” Mycroft says encouragingly.

“I know.” Sherlock says as he fumbles with Mycroft’s shirt. He then mumbles undoubtedly examining the hair that is revealed. “Mm… so hairy.”

“Problem?”

“I like it.” Sherlock smiles. His words are genuine. “It’s very manly.”

Mycroft blushes slightly – used more to teasing jokes about his appearance from Sherlock than compliments.

As if to show evidence of his approval, his brother actually leans forward to nuzzle at the thick dark hair on his chest. Mycroft could feel his own heart beat faster and a wave of intense affection washes over him. Unable to resist, Mycroft brushes a gentle kiss on Sherlock’s forehead while admiring how hairless, smooth and toned Sherlock’s chest is. His free arm snakes around his brother’s abdomen.

“You are gorgeous, little brother. I never imagined that you could be like this.”

And he knows that he has said too much when Sherlock tenses and his eyes narrow slightly in a deductive manner.

There is an icy cold fear that grips at Mycroft’s heart.

However, Sherlock makes no move to flee from Mycroft’s embrace. Instead, he relaxes.

He then says; his voice soft. “It’s fine, Mycroft. I don’t mind.”

“What do you not mind?” Mycroft asks with no minor trepidation.

“That your feelings run beyond brotherly.” Sherlock reassures. He then looks somewhat regretful. “I cannot promise that I can reciprocate, Mycroft.”

“I know.” Mycroft finally divests Sherlock of his shirt. Despite his brother’s truthful admission, Mycroft is relieved that Sherlock had accepted his feelings. It made things easier. He no longer had to hold back to hide them now that they are acknowledged. “I didn’t expect you to.”

Mycroft helps Sherlock pull off his pajama top, before Sherlock starts looking nervous.

“What’s wrong?” Mycroft immediately stills his roving hands, which had been caressing the lovely planes of Sherlock’s anterior torso.

“My back is a mess.”

“I know. I was there.” Mycroft whispers tenderly.

“It’s… hideous.” His brother states forlornly. There is a hint of wetness in his eyes.

Mycroft suddenly has the burning urge to resurrect all of those Serbian guards just to kill them all again. Slowly and torturously.

“Sh…” Mycroft wraps his arms around Sherlock’s slender torso and pulls him up into his lap. “Don’t cry, brother mine.”

His brother had always been a bit vain, despite his disdain for frivolous trivialities. But then again, Mycroft muses, Sherlock has reasons to be so. It’s not just Sherlock who bears the burdens of the scars – both physical and emotional. He feels responsible too. But, instead of expressing this in words, he leans forward slightly to press his lips against Sherlock’s. Their first real kiss. Sherlock mirrors his movements and kisses back, before sighing into Mycroft’s mouth. And honestly, Mycroft would love his brother regardless of his injuries. They stay in this position for a while, trading kisses and caresses. And if Mycroft had been a fanciful person, he could have remarked that with each touch and kiss – he could feel the years of resentments and pettiness dissolve. Mycroft nips at Sherlock’s skin, discovering the delectable spots on his neck and ears that make his brother melt and mewl.

“May I touch them? Your scars.” Mycroft asks carefully. “Let me see them.”

Sherlock gives a barely perceptible nod. There is an incredible vulnerability in his eyes that serves to highlight the truly staggering amount of trust that he has in Mycroft. He reluctantly turns and Mycroft breathes in just as he sees the angry reddened welts that mar Sherlock’s once pristine back. It isn’t the first time Mycroft had seen them, but they bring to the surface a complex mix of emotions. He unclenches a fist that he had unconsciously formed.

Carefully, he traces an angry scar that had been made by a chain. His brother’s back tells a story of love and sacrifice. A ledger on the brutality inflicted upon him. And Mycroft also knows that for Sherlock – it is a mark of shame. A sign of failure for being captured. He had wanted Sherlock to see the therapist offered to the agents of the MI6, whom his brother had seen twice after his return before deciding to discontinue. And, it’s a shame. Mycroft knows that there is a lot of pain buried within his brother. His finger runs along another scar that had been violently reopened at least once during the healing process.

What happened here? Mycroft wonders.

“You don’t want to know.” Sherlock is preemptively evasive.

“I think I do.”

“Please don’t ask.”

“You are protecting someone.”

Mycroft knows that he’s hit upon the truth when Sherlock doesn’t answer. Good Lord. It’s the damnable Dr. Watson. The so-called best friend that Sherlock had just been best man for barely a few hours ago. The man that Sherlock had spent so much of his precious time on to help plan and prepare for the bloody wedding. He had long suspected that the ex-flatmate had a nasty temper and anger issues based on the psych files from his old military days.

“I’ve forgiven him.”

“Well… I don’t.”

He has no desire to ruin this by discussing further on this subject. Although, God help the doctor if he ever lays another hand on Sherlock in such a manner again. Instead, Mycroft runs his hands along Sherlock’s back, wanting to replace those old violent memories and sensations with tenderness. He leans further forward, brushing his lips and spreading butterfly kisses along the ruined flesh while admiring the beauty that still remained.

When he looks up after thoroughly worshipping Sherlock’s back, he notices that his brother is silently crying. He realizes that Sherlock probably has not shown his back to anyone since his return, not even to Dr. Watson. His brother had likely taken great pains to conceal the extent of his injuries from everyone.

“Sherlock…?” Mycroft cautiously inquires.

“You find me beautiful…” There is an awe in his brother’s voice. “Scars and all.”

“Of course, I do.” Mycroft agrees. There is a surrealness pervading the atmosphere at this moment. All the barriers between Sherlock and him have somehow disintegrated. “I would be blind not to do so.”

“You are being kind.” Sherlock states quietly, somewhat stunned.

“Sherlock…” Mycroft pulls his brother back into his arms. “You deserve kindness. You’ve been unhappy for so long.” He swallows an endearment that he is sure Sherlock is not ready to hear. The world had been unkind to Sherlock. Unlike Mycroft, Sherlock had never been able to adapt. To conform. And people have never been too tolerant of those who are strikingly different. He then says seriously, “I haven’t seen you actually happy since you were a child. Ever since Redbeard passed…”

“There was little to be happy about.”

“I know.” Mycroft tilts his neck a bit to nuzzle at his brother’s forehead. “And I didn’t make it any easier.”

“No, you didn’t.” Sherlock hits back immediately. “You left. The only person who ever understood me. And you hardly returned.”

The truth hurts.

Mycroft had left for school. And when Sherlock grew older, Mycroft had realized that his feelings had run beyond what was acceptable for a fraternal relationship. So, he had to maintain his distance both physically and emotionally in order to hide them. It would have led to his ruin. He had tried to get over these feelings by having relationships with other people, but it didn’t help. His lovers had called him heartless, when the reality was that he had far too much for only one special person in his life.

“I am sorry.” Mycroft says earnestly.

But it feels startlingly inadequate.

There are other things he wants to say. _I love you. Let me make it up to you. _But he doesn’t. Instead, he wipes the residual tears from his brother’s cheeks before tenderly cradling his brother’s face in his hands before kissing him again. Deeply. Mycroft licks skillfully into Sherlock’s mouth, carefully savouring and mapping the warn cavern. His brother’s tongue tangles deliciously with his in this sensual French kiss. Mycroft expresses his apologies in every sweet caress, and his brother seems to be conveying forgiveness and thankfulness with every one of his.

They break apart to draw breath and then work together to remove Sherlock’s trousers and Mycroft’s pajama bottoms. Sherlock looks at Mycroft’s cock with curiosity. Mycroft notes that Sherlock’s erect prick is slimmer and slightly shorter than his with a pale colouration that allowed the redness of the blood to show through; it is long and lean – a beautiful representation of how Sherlock is in stature.

Mycroft fishes out the lubricant from the drawer.

Sherlock’s eyes widen. “Are you going to fuck me?”

“No.” Mycroft shakes his head. “You aren’t ready for that.”

“But you want to.”

“What I want is immaterial. This is for you. First times should really be for you to find out if you enjoy coming with another person, brother mine. And, Sherlock – what I truly want is for you to enjoy this. There shouldn’t be any pressure. There shouldn’t ever be any pressure. And… I will enjoy this too. If you want penetration, I can use fingers – if that’s what you want.”

Sherlock proceeds to straddle Mycroft’s thighs and initiates his first deep kiss. Mycroft allows Sherlock’s demanding tongue entry, while he himself reaches downwards to cup Sherlock’s ample buttocks. God. This feels so fantastic. Mycroft wants to pinch himself to see if this is just a dream. And he wonders – how this could be considered a sin, a stain to society – when all he has is the tenderest of affections for his brother.

But then again, he doesn’t give a fuck about what society thinks.

At some point, Mycroft reaches for the lubricant during their kiss, while Sherlock’s hands are busy exploring Mycroft’s body, tracing undecipherable messages with his fingers. He groans into Sherlock’s mouth when a fingertip brushes against a nipple. Squeezing some of the lubrication into his hand – even though the precum dripping from both their cocks is probably adequate for what he plans to do – Mycroft slightly readjusts his position to line both their pricks up and lubricates both easily with his large hand. Sherlock moans at the touch; his face is already flushed, and his pupils are dilated with arousal. There is sweat visibly forming on Sherlock’s forehead. And when he strokes, Sherlock scrunches his eyes with obvious pleasure, completely focused on the sensations that Mycroft is creating in him.

“How is it?” Mycroft asks, his voice somewhat unsteady.

“God… brother…” Sherlock breathes. His arms are wrapped tightly around Mycroft in a hug. “It feels so good.”

“Good.” Mycroft smiles when Sherlock’s hips buck slightly – a sign that Sherlock wants more. Maybe in the future, he could tease his brother, but today he applies a bit more friction and adds a twist to his stroke.

“Amazing. Awesome. Brilliant…” Sherlock adds between his pants. “Damn… I’ve been missing out. Do you want –“

“No, brother – just relax and let go when you are ready.” Mycroft whispers.

He studies closely the expressions on his beloved’s face as his orgasm builds and crests with every stroke, not wanting to miss a thing. And Sherlock gasps loudly in amazement when the tide of orgasm finally sweeps him apart. Seeing his brother so undone by hedonistic pleasure, Mycroft himself spills right after. They both collapse onto each other and finally onto the bed – breathing loudly, struggling to catch their breaths. Mycroft reaches over to lazily trace letters on his brother’s scarred back and it takes him a moment to realize that he is spelling out the words _I love you_ on Sherlock’s skin, repeatedly. His brother’s eyes are closed, but his countenance shows a sated look of contentment.

“What did you think about that?” Mycroft asks.

“I loved it.” Sherlock has a dreamy smile on his face. “It was so lovely… so lovely.”

“Adequate first time – brother?”

“Now you are just fishing for compliments. But yes, amazing first time… It was better than any fantasy I ever had.” Sherlock moves forward to brush light kisses against Mycroft’s chest in a neat little line. His fingers dip into the ejaculate on Mycroft’s belly and he sucks the secretions off his fingers. His face wrinkles comically in distaste, causing Mycroft to grin fondly in amusement.

“It’s an acquired taste, brother mine.” Mycroft informs him.

Their eyes meet and Sherlock smiles teasingly, “Maybe I will blow you next time.”

“Oi, don’t make promises you don’t intend to keep – you tease.” Mycroft groans, already picturing what his cock would look like with Sherlock’s plush pink lips around it. It is almost enough to get him hard again. “I take it that you want to try it again sometime with someone?”

“Mm… yes – preferably as soon as possible. With you.”

Mycroft feels ludicrously happy as Sherlock moves to cuddle up against him.

“Will you stay the night?” Mycroft asks, testing the waters.

Sherlock nods. “I will.”

“It was good, wasn’t it?”

“Mycroft, next time I will come prepared with a trophy; today you will have to settle with this organic mess that is fusing us together.” Even the teasing has an air of fondness that Mycroft revels in. It has lost its old hurtful edge. “Ouch!” Sherlock complains loudly when Mycroft pinches his inner thigh none-too-gently in retaliation.

“We should go shower.” Mycroft suggests.

“A minute longer – I am comfortable here.” Sherlock buries his face in Mycroft’s chest.

And, Mycroft knows that even if Sherlock doesn’t love him in the same way yet, he has an instinctive hope that the chances are very good that Sherlock would reach the same page someday. It is getting late – Mycroft notes – and with some coaxing, he finally gets his brother out of the bed and into the shower, where he shows Sherlock the delights of being the recipient of fellatio – before they finally crawl back into bed where they share a few more affectionate kisses and fall asleep, curled up next to one another.


End file.
